


Fig Newton

by EdgarAllenPoet



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, CNA Duck Newton, Duck works at the nursing home, Gen, Nursing, Nursing Home AU, TAZ Amnesty, Trans Duck Newton, none of these tags exist apparently this is a very niche story i'm writing, not plot relevant, old people, young duck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21673969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgarAllenPoet/pseuds/EdgarAllenPoet
Summary: "If one more person pressed their call light to ask Duck when Mr. Kennedy was gonna stop yelling, Duck was going to cry in the bathroom."A.K.A. Duck Newton is a CNA in a nursing home, and yes, this is entirely self-projection.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	Fig Newton

**Author's Note:**

> Title because old folks love Fig Newtons. Get it? Get it??
> 
> It’s not a HIPAA violation if you change the names and smudge the details.

Duck Newton didn't hate his job. 

He didn't _like_ his job, obviously, but he was pretty sure nobody ever liked their job. That was just some kinda capitalist propaganda-- and yeah, okay, he was a full-grown twenty-six-year-old person. He'd long outgrown his punk phase since high school, but some of the angst he'd spouted had been right. Capitalism was hell. 

And if capitalism was hell, well, the nursing home was purgatory. 

The thing about it was, Duck had done worse jobs. He'd been part-time at the Pizza Hut during high school, until he got fired for catching the flu, falling asleep in his car, and forgetting to call off. Nancy hadn't wanted to-- she was good people and a good manager-- but corporate had "rules" about these things. 

If capitalism was hell, Corporate was the devil. 

Just as well, though. He'd kind of hated it there. 

He worked for Leo for a few years after that, and that had been fine. It'd been good, honestly, except that retail made him want to tear his own skin off and throw himself into traffic. It was just so... boring. Eight hour shifts of stocking and restocking and dusting and mopping and trying desperately to look busy while somebody's great aunt bitched that you didn't have a specific brand of dish detergent, and no she wasn't going to drive into town to get it, she wouldn't have to if Leo just had it here, and then there were kids from his high school that would come in and act like they'd ever been friendly in the first place, and when his actual friends would visit from college they'd talk about the city and their classes and Duck was happy for them, but he'd also wanted to die. 

So no, retail wasn't good for his mental health. It was a miracle he'd lasted as long as he did, before quitting and being a waiter for a year or so. He'd left amicably at least, Leo understanding that the local grocery store scene wasn't for everyone, even being kind enough to rent Duck an apartment for far less than he ought to be paying and still offer him little handyman jobs every so often for a couple of bucks. Fixing railings, delivering groceries, driving Ms. Morgans to the hospital for her dialysis, and 'hey Duck come learn how ta snake a drain if ya got a minute.'

Leo took care of him, and he'd also been one of the first people to use Duck's actual pronouns when he'd started transitioning his senior year of high school. Better than family, in that respect. Leo was good people. 

Some people were not good people.

For example, Mr. Kennedy in room D107 was not good people at all. Mr. Kennedy was the kind of person that made Duck wonder if his semester-long CNA training had actually been worth it, if maybe he'd be better off getting paid less than minimum down at Main St. Diner. Mr. Kennedy had been chanting and yelling and wailing for six hours straight at this point, pissed to hell and back that his family had stuck him in the old folks home. And listen, Duck got it. He did. He'd be pissed to hell and back too in this situation, but Duck was also a lot more subdued. He would have given up the yelling five hours and fifty-three minutes ago. 

Not Mr. Kennedy, though. Mr. Kennedy was holding a hostage takeover in his room, and when Duck had tried to give him his food tray earlier for breakfast, Mr. Kennedy had scooped up oatmeal in his bare hands and chucked it at the wall in retaliation. 

Son of a bitch. 

If one more person pressed their call light to ask Duck when Mr. Kennedy was gonna stop yelling, Duck was going to cry in the bathroom. 

Worst of all- _worst_ of _all_ , because corporate was the devil and capitalism was hell and certain types of nurses were sadistic fucking demons- Rhonda wouldn't stop tutting at him that really _somebody_ ought to get Mr. Kennedy under control. 

_"Somebody_ " was Duck, who thought that was awfully unfair, considering Rhonda was the one with the tranquilizers. But okay. 

When a crash rang out down the hallway, Duck's stomach dropped to his knees and he hopped up from his seat at the nurses station to abandon his charting and haul ass down the hallway, peeking into every room as he went to see who'd fallen, knowing full well that it was probably Mr. Kennedy. 

Mr. Kennedy had not fallen, thank the Lord, but he had kicked his tray table over and sent the contents scattering across the room. He glared pretty smugly at Duck from his seat huddled up in bed, bared his gross awful old man teeth, and said: "I wanna go home." 

"I know, Mr. Kennedy," Duck sighed, going to pick up the table and fish the phone out from under the bed. He said, " _Geez_ ," under his breath, letting his temper get the better of him. 

Mr. Kennedy repeated himself, yelling this time, "I wanna go home!" 

"I know, man!" Duck nearly yelled back, because it had been a long fucking day. 

Immediate consequences, though. Mr. Kennedy had a half-full urinal sitting next to his bed, which he chucked at Duck with all his might (far _too much_ might for a ninety-year-old). Duck was just lucky enough to have the sense and reflexes to close his eyes and mouth and turn his head away when the thing crashed against the wall next to him, shattered the whiteboard, and splashed cold piss everywhere.

" ** _I wanna go home_**!" Mr. Kennedy screeched, and then resumed his chanting. "I wanna go home! I wanna go home! I wanna--" 

Duck picked the urinal up off the floor and left it in the bathroom. He stepped out of the room, called maintenance to come take a look at the whiteboard, and definitely didn't cry in the bathroom. 

That had been his morning. 

There was a reason he didn't work day shift. Day shift was hell-- six a.m. start time, two meals, and everyone wants to shower before breakfast. It was impossible, and Duck was much happier with evening shift where he had one meal, three hours of rushing for bedtime routines, and then finally silence when everyone conked out. 

Unfortunately for Duck that day, he got to work both. 

There was a special place in capitalist hell for people who called off at the nursing home. Duck never called off at the nursing home, because he was a good employee who considered the feelings of his coworkers and didn't want to be That Asshole that stuck someone in an involuntary double shift. 

But it was fine, it was Fine. It wasn't like he was exhausted and hadn't thought to bring a lunch or anything. It was _fine_. 

It wasn't like he had anything better to do. 

By the time nine p.m. rolled around, Duck was exhausted. He'd woken up that morning at four forty-five and he would have given anything in the world to just lay down and close his eyes for three minutes. Instead, he glued his eyes open and cracked open the energy drink he'd been saving, sat his ass in front of the computer, and finally started his charting. He tried to ignore the stench of piss that clung to him, and definitely didn't fantasize about burning his scrubs when he got home.

Next to him, his favorite resident in the world was still awake. Her name was Opey, which was a ridiculous name for a person, and she was every flavor of crazy but only in the nice and friendly ways. Duck could handle crazy if it was nice to him. He could handle dementia if they weren't, um, legitimately demented.

The midnight shift from the night before told him in report that Opey had been up and down every fifteen minutes on their shift, and they were Not Pleased, to put it lightly. "Tell evenings to keep her up as long as you can," they'd told him. "Or hell, don't put her down, I'll do it when I get there." 

So Duck kept her up and sat her next to him at the nurse's station. She switched between rolling herself back and forth in her chair, kind of rocking, until she'd bumped into his ankles and made him hiss in a pained breath through his teeth. 

"Hurt the baby," Opey had said, and started going through their drawers instead. 

That was fine. All she was going to find was hidden candies and old pens and thermometers that no longer worked. She also found bubble wrap, somehow, which Duck only realized when he felt a shaky old hand touching the side of his face. He'd looked over to find bubble wrap being pushed at him. Opey was wearing her own piece as a hat. 

"Alright then," Duck said, taking it and placing it on his own head. She smiled. Duck felt incredibly silly. 

They sat like that, Duck procrastinating on doing trash pick up while flying through his charting as fast as humanly possible, explaining to Opey when she got restless that it was like a game-- you just gotta click the buttons.

At 9:24 p.m. Rhonda walked past with her med. cart, and she'd stopped to glare and say, "Get that off your head, you look ridiculous," snatching it away and dropping it on the desk in front of him.

Duck waited patiently for her to bustle further off down the hallway before putting it back on his head and sticking his tongue out at her back, overexaggerated and immature, sure, but he was exhausted. 

"Naughty, naughty," Opey said, either at him or for no reason at all. Either way, Duck chuckled and rolled his eyes. 

"Yes ma'am, I'm sorry," he told her. 

Opey said, "That's a lovely hat," reaching out to pat his cheek very tenderly, nearly poking him in the eye. He closed it and sighed. Then she asked, "Which was to South Bend from here?"

Duck didn't know where South Bend was at all, but he imagined it had to be south. He considered which direction they were facing and where the sun came up from over the mountain, and then pointed his best. "'Bouts that way," he told her. 

She followed his point with her gaze. "Long walk?" 

Considering he'd never heard of it, it probably wasn't even in West Virginia. That, and Opey could stand up on her own. "Heck of a long walk, Opey, yeah." 

"That's just too bad," she said, and Duck nodded. Then a call light went off, and he sighed at the beeping, figuring it was about time he started trash and folley roundup anyways.

**Author's Note:**

> Blame my roommate for this, she has the best ideas. Tune in next chapter to see Duck Newton get hit on by weird old ladies.
> 
> edit::: (6/25/2020) ---   
> This fic is absolutely not going anywhere. I didn't know what it was when I started it, and I don't know what it is now. Sorry friends ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
